Old fartdom comes in increments.
Phase 1: The Inner Mom
The first glimmer occurred around 30, when I was sitting at a light and a beautiful young creature strode across the crosswalk, her wife-beater T and cutoffs barely constraining a body truly chiseled by the gods. Did I leer lecherously? Did I honk? Did I hit the windshield wipers? Not exactly.
"How on earth did she get out of the house dressed like that?" I scolded.
Horrified, I immediately self-corrected. "AUUUUGH! I meant, WOO! WHAT A RACK!" But it was too late. Once you hear your mother's words come out of your mouth, they will not go back in.
Phase 2: Harmlessness
Once I hit my mid-30s, I found myself surrounded by beautiful 20ish women. I didn't particularly seek them out, yet on they came. I regarded them with curiosity. Why now? Why were these women, who would never have deigned to be seen with me when I was ten years younger, suddenly booking me for drinks? Had they seemed interested, I might have chalked it up to gold-digging or, if it were a good day, actual attraction. But no. For the most part, they just sought my company. It was then that I realized I had become safe. Ten years earlier, they would have considered me demographically datable, so they would have avoided date-like environs like the plague. But now, I'm a harmless old fart, as nonthreatening, I suspect, as a relative. Cheers, Grandpa.
And then depression set in. Not for nothing, but who really wants to be nonthreatening?
Phase 3: Sheepishness
So nowadays I hang out with my ludicrously attractive 23 year-old protégé, and even pondering such things as my own harmlessness seems cluelessly antiquated. Anyone who meets her, male or female, knows she's one of the great women of all time. I know that I'm ever aware of it. And yeah, a part of me recoils when she slums it, not just out of protectiveness but out of a genuine need for her to end up with someone much, much better than I ever was. It's some kind of time-travel jealousy thing. I want him to be worthy of his appalling luck, to appreciate the lottery he hit.
She and I went to Teatro Zinzanni a few weeks ago, a low-rent Cirque du Soleil here in Seattle where you're forced to interact with the entertainers for the amusement of all. As we walked into this unexpectedly datey venue together, I looked around in horror at all the couples and officially hit phase three:
"Good god. I hope everyone just thinks I'm her father."
It got worse. She introduced me to our fellow patrons as her boss. Much worse.